Chapter 2

MY TRUANDER ROOM

As soon as Max pressed the neighbour’s doorbell, he wished he hadn’t. An eerie chime echoed deep inside the rambling house and he desperately wanted to run. It was like his dream all over again. He swallowed hard and braced himself to face the mysterious man who lived behind that door.

Muffled scraping came from the other side of the door, as Max stared up at a peephole set in the varnished wood. A bulging eyeball looked back at him through the glass. A chain rattled, followed by clunks from the lock. Max stepped back, and slipped awkwardly off the doorstep, scraping his shin and grazing the skin. Slowly the door moved, letting daylight spill into the gloomy hallway and brush across the man’s face as he emerged from the shadows. A middle-aged face with cold grey eyes and a nose that, seen close up, looked even longer than Max had remembered. It was Gran who’d first described the man as the Child-Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

Music seeped out through the open door, together with a strong smell of curry. For a split second Max thought how scary it would be if the music was from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, but it sounded more like Bach. He glanced down, noticing a little wooden cross with R.I.P. on it, just to the left of the doorstep. Its marble base, engraved with the word LOVE, held a single white rose. An odd place for a pet’s grave, he thought.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Max began. He’d rehearsed what to say very carefully. ‘Would you mind if I get my ball back, please? It seems to have gone over the fence.’

The man moved further out into the light, eyes squinting slightly. ‘Seems?’ he sniffed.

‘Er, yes. My football. It’s on your back lawn. Sorry.’

‘So there’s no ‘seems’ about it. It’s definite. Sounds like you definitely kicked it over.’

‘Yes… I mean no. I’m sorry to bother you.’

The man stepped out onto the doorstep. He wore a dark suit and a blue-striped shirt with a navy blue tie.

‘When did you do it?’ he asked seriously. Too seriously, as far as Max was concerned.

‘Er… I’m not really sure,’ Max answered, sort of truthfully, bending down to wipe his shin. He screwed up his face as blood smeared the stinging graze.

‘Not sure? Not sure? Are you telling me you did it in your sleep?’

This wasn’t going very well. Max hadn’t rehearsed this bit. ‘Maybe this morning,’ he lied.

‘So you take full responsibility for such foolishness?’

The real answer was undoubtedly NO. Max knew full well he hadn’t kicked the ball. He hadn’t played with it for days. He just wanted it back, that was all.

‘If it’s inconvenient, I can leave it for now if you’d rather,’ Max heard himself saying.

The man paused as the Bach over his shoulder came to a finale with a flourish.

‘Are you going to be in this evening?’ he asked, looking very severe. ‘With your father?’

Max stared at him blankly. ‘Yes. Yes, I think so. Dad should get back at about six.’

‘So any time before nine-thirty, then? That’s your bedtime, isn’t it, Maxwell?’

‘Er, usually.’ Max felt this conversation was getting weirder by the minute.

‘That’s quite late enough for a ten-year-old. Early to bed, early to rise, makes a lad healthy, wealthy and wise.’ He paused before adding, ‘I see you are too wise for me…’

Max stared in disbelief. The man stepped back briskly. ‘I’ll be round at eight. I might bring the ball.’ And he shut the door, leaving Max on the step with a strange feeling in his stomach and a lingering smell of fried onions.

He stood on the doorstep long after the door had closed in his face, trying to make sense of the bizarre conversation. What was the big deal? It was only a tatty old football. So why was there to be an official complaint to Dad at 20.00 precisely? More creepily, how did Child-Catcher know when Max went to bed and how old he was? And another thing: where did ‘Maxwell’ come from? He’d never been called that in his life, not since the name had been recorded on his birth certificate. It was his mum’s maiden name but he’d always been known as just plain ‘Max’. In fact, there was no possible reason why Child-Catcher should know his name in the first place. They had never spoken to each other before. Why should they? Max only came to stay with Dad for the odd weekend or when Mum went away with her sister.

All Max knew about the strange neighbour was that he lived alone, was often away on business and seldom seemed to be at home for long. He drove a smart BMW and always wore a suit, even in the garden where he could occasionally be glimpsed trimming the hedge or cutting the lawn when it was getting dark. And now, it seemed, the nutter was intent on coming round to cause an ugly scene, over a football. Max just hoped his dad would handle it calmly without flying into one of his rages. That would be all they needed. Since he’d been stopped yet again by the police for having faulty tyres and then got a speeding ticket, Dad was about to lose his driving licence. He’d become extra edgy and unbearable to live with. Without a car, he said, his career as a medical rep was over.

***

Max’s gran told him not to worry. She was always telling people not to worry. She told Max not to worry about the neighbour. ‘At least Child-Catcher didn’t throw you in a cage or lock you up in his cellar! I’ll bring you another ball when I next pop round, dear.’

She kissed him on the cheek, called upstairs that she was ‘just off’ to Max’s dad, who’d arrived home more bad-tempered than usual, and went out to her pink Morris Minor convertible parked in the drive. Max waved from the front window as she reversed in fits and starts into the avenue, narrowly missing a Volvo parked opposite. A Volvo with a man inside, who was watching him closely as he waved to Gran. That was odd in itself. Yet, what was more unnerving, Max was sure it was the same car he’d sometimes seen parked outside his school. Just waiting.

Once more Max felt a shiver run down his back. He could only be certain of one thing: something very weird was going on. Or, as he wrote in his secret coded diary:

MY TRUANDER ROOM.